


When You're Burned

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Burn Notice Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Blood, F/M, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Minor Violence, Needles, Past Relationship(s), Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 12:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2429408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><strong>Burn Notice AU.</strong> Grantaire used to be a spy, until he got burned. Now, he's stuck in Chicago and trying to balance former friends, lovers, and family, all while taking down a mob boss and maybe figuring out who burned him. All in a day's work for a spy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As with most of my AUs, little knowledge of the source material is required. In fact, this is somewhat based on the pilot episode of the series, so you really don’t need to know much.
> 
> This was split in two parts on tumblr for length, and I decided to leave it that way because I liked the break and I think it works well.
> 
> Usual disclaimer applies, with the addition that I do not own Burn Notice and am just borrowing the concept from Matt Nix. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

_My name is Grantaire, and I used to be a spy, until—_

 

Grantaire woke up with a start, blinking at the taupe-colored walls with the kind of confusion that normally, for him, accompanied a horrendous hangover and alcohol-tinged vague memories of how he got there. Now, however, there was a pounding in his head that no quantity of alcohol could provide, matched in intensity and discomfort by what felt like a bullet wound in his upper arm. The pain in his head only increased when a far-too-cheerful voice from next to him said, in a hauntingly familiar accent that brought Grantaire back to warm nights in Paris with the window open and the sight of the Eiffel Tower in the background, “Good morning.”

Groaning, Grantaire slowly managed to sit up, though he was really beginning to feel that bullet wound as it seemed to echo throughout his entire body. “What are you doing here?” he managed, finally looking over at the blond man lounging on the bed beside him, immaculately dressed as always.

The blond arched one perfect eyebrow, and Grantaire sucked in a breath because even now, the sight was one of the most attractive he’d ever seen. “After you were passed out for two days, the maid got curious. She went through your wallet, and I’m still listed as your emergency contact.” If possible, the eyebrow arched even higher. “Which you should really change, by the way, after you break up with someone.”

Grantaire groaned again and raised a hand to run through his dark curls, unsurprised by the feel of dried blood in his hair. “Well in that case, I’m flattered you came, Enjolras.”

Enjolras smiled, a truly terrifying sight. “Don’t be.”

Grantaire chose to ignore that, instead glancing around the rather standard-looking hotel room. “Where am I?” he asked, realizing that his most recent memories put him somewhere in central Africa — Burundi, maybe?

“Chicago,” Enjolras said blithely, sitting up and stretching, and Grantaire tried not to stare at the sliver of perfect skin that was revealed as Enjolras’s shirt rode up while he stretched.

“Why am I in Chicago?” he asked instead, tearing his eyes away from Enjolras to frown at the window.

Enjolras shrugged. “The only thing I know is what the maid told me, and she says that the hotel was told that they were instructed to give you a room after you were flown here.”

Grantaire frowned. “Instructed?” he repeated. “What does that mean?”

Enjolras shrugged again and stood with an easy grace, bending over to tie his shoe in a way that showed Grantaire not just his perfect ass but the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants. “I do not know,” Enjolras said as he straightened. “But it probably has something to do with the fact that you’ve been burned.”

“Oh, fuck,” Grantaire sighed. “I almost forgot about that.”

 

_As a general rule, spies aren’t supposed to get drunk. The work they do is too important and too precarious to be squandered over one too many shots of Jack. But most of the work they do also takes place around a lot of booze. This leaves spies with two options: either pretend to get drunk while not drinking anything, or develop enough of an alcohol tolerance that it would probably take a lethal amount to bring you down. The first option is definitely easier, but the second option, well…in my opinion, it’s a lot more fun_.

 

A hint of a smile tugged at Grantaire’s lips before he bent to slowly draw his tongue up the flat planes of the woman’s stomach, stopping at her belly button to suck up the liquor pooled there, and slowly licking up to pluck the lime wedge she was holding between her teeth, barely brushing his lips against hers. As soon as he straightened, he was surrounded by cheering men, many of whom clapped him on the shoulder as they did.

Grantaire grinned and gave a mocking bow before grabbing his glass from where he had set it next to the girl and taking a big sip, following one of the men back to their table, weaving slightly as he did. He dropped heavily into the seat and grinned at the men sitting around the table, most dressed in nice, tailored suits. “Great party,” he said loudly, over the pounding music.

The man sitting directly across from him grinned. “Thank you,” he said in a deep voice. “And the money the CIA will be providing me will furnish even better parties in the future.”

Though Grantaire laughed a little too loudly, inwardly he rolled his eyes. There was little point trying to explain to people the difference between intelligence agencies and the fluid nature of most spies, many of whom weren’t even attached to one agency or another. Besides, there was equally little point in explaining this to an African warlord who was under the impression that the CIA was giving him money to buy his protection of arms shipping routes through the country, when in fact Grantaire just needed to get his account number so that the agency he was currently working for could track his financials.

“Speaking of the money,” he said loudly, propping his chin up on his hand and giving a sloppy smile to the warlord, “should we get on with that whole exchange? It’s getting late in the States.”

The man’s smile turned frosty. “I do not normally conduct business while drinking.”

_Damnit_. Grantaire tried to give him his most disarming smile. “Ah, but you’re not really conducting any business. This is a done deal. The only thing I need is your account number, and boom, I make one call, you get your money, we get our protection, and I get to go do more body shots off of that delightful woman.”

Thankfully, the warlord laughed, a loud, booming laugh, and shrugged. “Very well. On your head be it.” From the inside pocket of his suit jacket, he pulled a folded piece of paper, which he slid across the table to Grantaire, who took it and opened it before taking his phone out of his own suit jacket and dialing the first — and only — speed dial number. “I’ve got the account number,” he said, as soon as the other end picked up. “It’s 32728326—”

“It’s off,” said a curt voice on the other end of the phone, and Grantaire froze, his smile faltering.

“Excuse me?” he said, as calmly as he could.

“We got a burn notice on you,” the voice continued, and Grantaire’s heart seemed to stop, even as the voice added, “You’re blacklisted. I’m sorry.”

Grantaire tried as best he could to stay calm and not let his panic show on his face. “I don’t think you understand,” he said carefully. “I have the account number. It’s 327—”

The voice cut him off, repeating, “I’m sorry.”

And then there was just the sound of a dial tone.

 

_When a spy gets fired, he doesn’t get a call from HR. He gets cut off. They make sure he can never work again. They can’t take away his skills or what’s in his head, so they take away his resources that allow him to function. They burn him. And sometimes they leave him high and dry in the middle of a combat zone where it’s highly possible he’ll get killed._

 

Grantaire slowly lowered the phone from his ear, trying his best to keep a normal expression on his face, even as his heart was racing and adrenaline was pumping through his veins. “Is there a problem?” the warlord asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Grantaire said as slowly as he dared, trying to buy time while he came up with a plausible explanation. “Computer problem. Minor. You, uh, you know what that’s like.” He licked his lips a little nervously before adding, “We can try again tomorrow.”

The warlord slowly stood, his expression neutral, and said in his deep voice, “I think not. I will have my money. Now.”

Grantaire stood as well, automatically remembering where every exit in the room was located as well as mentally analyzing any potential obstacles that stood between him and said exits. “I don’t think you understand,” he said slowly, angling his body slightly so that he could run. “There’s a computer problem on their end. There’s nothing that I can do.”

The other men sitting at the table stood as well, a few reaching into their suit jackets for the guns undoubtedly holstered there, and Grantaire swallowed, hard, and resisted the urge to put his hands up in surrender. “There is always something you can do,” the warlord told him.

Which was true. There was always something Grantaire could do. But the gun in his own jacket didn’t hold enough rounds to take out everyone there, and besides, bodies were messy and the odds were pretty good that he’d also take some fire.

So instead, he took the only other option available to him: he ran.

 

_If you want to become a spy, I recommend taking up running. Not marathon running in skin-tight spandex with proper shoes. No, I recommend learning how to sprint in a tailored suit with leather shoes because chances are, you’re gonna have to at one time or another, and you’re not going to want to be trying it for the first time when you’re running for your life._

 

He was lucky in that clearly they weren’t expecting him to run, and thus the time they spent fumbling for their guns instead of moving to stop him was almost all the time that he needed to get to the closest exit. He was unlucky in that someone completely unrelated to what was happening chose that moment to turn around and accidentally trip him, sending him spinning to the floor. “Oh, fuck,” he sighed, quickly reaching into his jacket for his own gun and firing off a quick burst of shots before standing and heading towards the exit again.

His few gunshots were enough to buy him the time that he needed to get out of the room, and then it was just a matter of outrunning bullets in order to get out of the warlord’s compound, something easier said than done. Still, Grantaire had trained for this for years, and managed to get almost all the way to the exit before he was cornered in a room at the end of the hall by one of the guards, who shot him in the arm.

Grantaire’s breath hissed from between his teeth as he clamped his hand over the wound. “That wasn’t very nice,” he said in a low voice, edging towards the window.

The guard laughed as Grantaire glanced out the window. “We are on the upper floor. What are you going to do?” he asked. “Jump?”

“Yep.” And Grantaire did, crashing backward through the glass as he less jumped than fell out the window, twisting in midair so as to not land directly on his feet, as that would undoubtedly kill his ankles. It didn’t matter too much anyway, as there was a large flower bush that mostly broke his fall.

Emphasis on  _was_ , since when Grantaire staggered to his feet, the poor flower bush was mostly smashed into the ground. “Oops,” he said, before taking off for the gate of the compound at a jog.

Of course, even if he were to get out of the compound, which would be ideal, he was still in the middle of Africa with no backup and no rescue on the way. What he needed was to get to an airport. What he needed was to get to a safe country so that he could call his handler and try to figure out what the fuck was going on.

And at the moment, what he needed was to scale a ten-foot wall with barbed wire at the top, all while ignoring the bullet wound in his arm.

Not a problem at all.

He had adrenaline to thank for getting him over the wall, but it was that same adrenaline that almost caused him to kill with his bare hands the person who grabbed him on the other side, until he heard someone say urgently, “Grantaire!”

He stopped swinging at them and paused before realizing it was one of the extraction team. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“You’ve been burned. But that doesn’t mean they want you dead.”

Grantaire shook his head, frustrated. “What—” he started, but then he had a needle unceremoniously jammed into his neck, and everything went black.

 

_A spook is always running. When a spy’s not running from a foreign government, or, worse, his own government, he’s running from his past, from those who can expose him or just make his life miserable. This makes it hard to maintain most relationships, whether or friends, and almost impossible to maintain a romantic relationship. A lesson I’ve learned the hard way._

 

“Why didn’t they just kill you?” Enjolras asked when Grantaire finished relating the story of how he had been burned to him. “Obviously that was the intention, leaving you all alone mid-mission. Why send someone to get you out? There’s no way you’d have gotten out on your own otherwise.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Your faith in my survival skills notwithstanding,” he said dryly, “assumedly if I had died inside the compound, it would have been one thing, but just think of the paperwork involved if I was killed in the middle of Bujumbura.”

“Ah, paperwork,” Enjolras said, nodding sagely. “Every spy’s downfall.” He sat down on the edge of Grantaire’s bed. “So now that you’re back home for awhile, what are you going to do?”

Groaning, Grantaire rubbed his face tiredly. “Well, they’ve undoubtedly frozen my accounts by now and erased my credit, so I guess I’m going to try to put some money together.”

Enjolras examined his fingernails carefully as he asked, far too casually, “Are you going to see your father and sister?”

Grantaire glared at him. “That’s none of your business.”

“Of course not,” Enjolras said smoothly. “But you should know I called Valjean. We had a lovely chat. He’s thrilled you’re going to be home for Thanksgiving.”

Grantaire made a noise like a cross between a growl and a hiss. “I’m not home,” he said through clenched teeth. “And I have little intention of dragging Valjean into this.”

Enjolras cocked his head slightly, a shadow seeming to pass over his face. “Yet you once told me that the time you spent with him as your foster father were the happiest years of your life.”

Grantaire didn’t meet Enjolras eyes as he corrected quietly, “The second-happiest years of my life.” He shrugged and stood, trying to rearrange his clothing into something even remotely respectable. “But he has no need to be involved in any of this.”

Enjolras’s eyes followed him as he started toward the door, and there was a bitterness in his voice as he asked, “Leaving? You’re good at that.”

Pausing, Grantaire sighed and gave up on fixing his clothes, instead turning back to Enjolras. “Someone put that burn notice out on me,” he told him quietly. “I have to take care of it now or a bullet wound is going to be the least of my worries.”

He glanced towards the window again, and Enjolras sighed but apparently took pity on him. “There’s an FBI surveillance team down the street. Two-man team.”

“Will you do me a favor and run interference for me?” Grantaire asked, giving Enjolras his most charming smile. “Please? You’re so very good at causing a distraction.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Fine. But you’ll owe me dinner.”

“Deal,” Grantaire said easily. “Now let’s go.”

 

_Spies don’t have normal friends. In fact, almost every friend that a spy has is either currently a spy, used to be a spy, or used to work with spies, both for the home and away teams. You can’t hold a grudge as a spy — your enemy today may end up being your ally tomorrow, and ours isn’t an industry with a great life expectancy. So when you make friends, you tend to make them for life._

 

Grantaire reclined in the plush, leather chair and propped his feet up on the desk as he waited for the occupant of the office to return. He was warned of the impending arrival by the sound of something breaking and someone swearing under his breath as he pushed the door open, followed by an, “Oh, fuck.”

“Good to see you, too, Bossuet,” Grantaire said easily.

Bossuet quickly shut the door behind him, his bald head already flushing as he glared at Grantaire. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he demanded, crossing over to his desk and shutting the blinds of the window behind it. “You’ve been flagged on every government list, did you know that? You couldn’t have called instead of just showing up?”

Grantaire gave him a look. “Would you have agreed to see me if I did?”

“Of course not,” Bossuet said, disgruntled, sitting across from him. “Get your feet off my desk.” Grantaire rolled his eyes but complied, and Bossuet shook his head. “I mean, Christ, Grantaire, you always were good at pissing people off, don’t get me wrong, but this—”

“It’s a mistake,” Grantaire said quickly, sitting up in the chair. “It has to be a mistake. Just tell me what you’ve heard about it from your contacts.”

Bossuet sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. His post-Algerian Département du Renseignement et de la Sécurité days had been better to him than to some people, but the loss of his hair was particularly pronounced. “I don’t have details,” he said finally, reluctantly. “I just heard that you were out. That’s it.”

Grantaire growled and leaned forward, his eyes flashing. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he snapped. “I’m just out?”

“How in the hell am I supposed to know?” Bossuet shot back. “I just told you everything I know, which is more than what I should’ve done. Do you realize what I’m risking by even having this conversation?”

Though Grantaire slowly sat back in his seat, his expression was still mutinous, though his tone was gentler when he said quietly, “I know. And I’m sorry. But there was literally no one else that I could go to.” He paused before asking, “How’s Joly?”

Bossuet’s face instantly broke into an easy smile. “He’s doing really well. He’s got his medical license back and everything. He works crazy hours at the hospital, but, well, he worked crazy hours when he was providing medical support for guerrilla fighters too, so I guess in that regard it isn’t any different.”

“That’s good,” Grantaire said, smiling as well. “I’m really glad to hear it.” He waited a tactful moment before saying, a little hesitantly, “You know why I came to see you. You know what they do when they burn you. I’m broke. And if I’m going to figure this out and clear my name, I need to put some money together.”

Bossuet snorted. “Of course. Because that’s what I want on my record, bankrolling a burned spy.” Grantaire gave him a pleading look, and he sighed. “Look, it’s not like I have stacks of cash lying around, but there may be something. A job. But you’ll have to talk to Combeferre and Courfeyrac.”

Grantaire made a face. “After the time in the place with the thing?”

“I think they’ve forgiven you for that. And they still have connections, which means they’re good people to have on your side.” Bossuet hesitated, then opened a drawer in his desk and handed Grantaire a wad of cash. “Get yourself cleaned up and get some new clothes. You look awful.” Though Grantaire rolled his eyes, he also flashed Bossuet a grateful look as he accepted the money. Bossuet leaned back in his chair and asked, a hint of a smile on his lips, “So now that you’re going to be sticking around in one place for awhile, are you going to call Enjolras?”

Grantaire snorted and shook his head as he stood, tucking the money into his suit jacket pocket. “Yeah, no. I don’t think that’s necessary.”

Bossuet frowned slightly. “Why not?”

Shrugging, Grantaire started for the door, pausing only to look over his shoulder and give Bossuet a devilish grin. “Because he’s currently sitting in my hotel room.”

 

_Covert operatives don’t really retire. The ones who live long enough to make it out have been in the business for too long to really escape, so you find a lot of ex-spies in security, defense, corporate espionage, etc. Anything that uses your carefully honed instincts. But every once in awhile, there’s a rare bird that gets out and really gets out. I envy them that ability._

 

“The Bears, Courf?” Grantaire asked, sliding into the booth in the dimly-lit bar across from where Combeferre and Courfeyrac were sitting together. “Really? I mean, I suppose it’s better than the Cubs, but…”

Courfeyrac laughed and raised his beer glass in a salute, but Combeferre looked unamused. The contrast between the two, Courfeyrac as former CIA and Combeferre as former NSA, couldn’t be more pronounced, with Courfeyrac lounging in the booth, drinking beer and wearing a well-worn Chicago Bears jersey and scuffed jeans, while Combeferre was wearing a perfectly pressed suit, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose. “What can I say, man?” Courfeyrac said, taking a sip of beer and gesturing for the waitress to bring him and Grantaire another one. “I got out, and I figured there was no reason to pretend that I’m not who I am anymore.”

Combeferre snorted. “And who he is apparently involves supporting terrible sports teams and spending most of his day drinking and living it up.”

The waitress brought Courfeyrac and Grantaire their beers and Grantaire raised his in a toast. “Hey, when you almost get killed a bunch of times, living it up is the least you can do, right?”

Courfeyrac grinned and clinked his glass against Grantaire’s. “Hear, hear.”

Combeferre still didn’t look amused, and told Grantaire stiffly, “Courfeyrac’s an anomaly. Most of us still maintain our government contracts, which means that associating with you is problematic at best.”

“Ignore him,” Courfeyrac told Grantaire as he slung an arm around Combeferre’s shoulders. “He still hasn’t forgiven you for that time in the place with the thing.” Grantaire sighed heavily, though he looked stricken when Courfeyrac added, “And of course, he hasn’t forgiven you for Enjolras.”

Though Combeferre gave Courfeyrac a dirty look, he didn’t deny it, and Grantaire winced. “Look, I have no intention of sticking around and being in your hair,” he told him, in his most placating fashion. “I just need to figure out who burned me so that I can get the hell out of here. And to do that, I need a place to stay and I need some money. Bossuet suggested that you might be able to help me with that.”

Courfeyrac exchanged glanced with Combeferre and shrugged. “We might be able to help you out. I know of an apartment that was seized from some drug manufacturers. If you don’t mind the potential side-effects of living in a former meth lab, anyway.”

Grantaire shrugged and laughed. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“As for a job,” Combeferre said, tone serious, “we’d have to look into a few things, and—”

“Well isn’t this quite the merry gathering.”

All three of them looked up as Enjolras strolled over to their table, grinning. Combeferre and Courfeyrac instantly stood, both beaming, to give Enjolras a hug and a handshake before he sat down next to Grantaire, who looked like he would prefer if the ground could swallow him whole. “What are you doing here?” Courfeyrac asked, still grinning. “I thought you were legally banned from entering the US?”

Enjolras shrugged, a fluid gesture, and tossed his blond curls before telling Courfeyrac innocently, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Grantaire snorted. “Of course you don’t.” He looked back at Combeferre. “What were you saying about a job?”

“I was saying that I’d look into it,” Combeferre said, his smile not nearly as wide as Courfeyrac’s, but still there nonetheless. “But before we do any kind of business together, I feel obligated to inform you that Courfeyrac and I are meant to report on your activities to our friends in the FBI.”

Courfeyrac sighed heavily. “I was going to be a bit more coy about it,” he complained.

Grantaire just shrugged. “If I couldn’t handle my friends informing on me, I wouldn’t be in the business. The way I see it, better my friends than someone I don’t know.” He paused before adding, just the hint of a threat in his voice, “The way I see it, a friend would tell them just enough to make them happy but keep them out of my business. And a friend wouldn’t mention any old associates that happened to be hanging around.”

Enjolras looked over at him sharply. “I can take care of myself,” he said, though he sounded a little surprised.

Grantaire ignored him. “So how does that sound?”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchanged glances again and both shrugged. “Works for me,” Courfeyrac said, draining his beer.

Enjolras cleared his throat. “Since that’s all taken care of,” he said brightly, turning to Grantaire, “you should know that I called Valjean to let him know you’re coming to visit this afternoon.”

Grantaire groaned and looked mournfully at his half-full beer. “I’m gonna need another one of these.”

 

_People with good families don’t become spies. A bad childhood is the perfect background. You don’t trust anyone, you’re used to getting smacked around, and you don’t get homesick. Even after being placed in a foster home with possibly the kindest man on this planet, I still might as well have gotten ‘Recruit me’ tattooed on my forehead._

 

“There he is!” Valjean said excitedly, and Grantaire sighed, forcing a tired smile onto his face as Valjean came down the steps of the same home that he had lived in for the past twenty years to give Grantaire a hug. “You look thin. Do they not feed you in your line of work? Come inside, I made bread.”

Grantaire sighed but allowed Valjean to steer him indoors, though he couldn’t help teasing him. “Are you sure you didn’t  _steal_  bread?”

Valjean just roared with laughter and pulled him even closer. “I missed you,” he said, his tone turning serious. “You don’t call, you don’t write, you don’t come home to see me…”

Sighing again, Grantaire’s tone was also serious as he told him, “I appreciate that, but this hasn’t been home in years, and you know that.”

Valjean stopped and turned to face Grantaire, clasping his shoulders with both hands, and Grantaire was surprised as always by the power in those massive hands. Grantaire had spent the first month living with Valjean terrified of what the man would do to him, since his own father had been inclined to smack him around and Valjean was easily twice the size of his old man. But Valjean had been nothing but kind to him and to his other foster child, a little girl named Cosette who had been with him for even longer than Grantaire, and who Valjean eventually adopted, and that kindness shone through even now as Valjean told him quietly, “This may not be your home anymore, but you can always come home to here. Always.”

Grantaire blushed and shrugged, because this was what he hated about coming back to see Valjean — Valjean cared. And Grantaire couldn’t do the things he did in his life knowing that someone cared about him, that someone even missed him while he was gone. It was too much to deal with.

So instead, he changed the subject. “Where’s Cosette?” he asked, shrugging out of Valjean’s grasp as they made their way inside. “Keeping out of trouble, I hope?”

“Yeah, because you’re one to talk,” a high, clear voice said from inside the kitchen, and Grantaire couldn’t help but smile at Cosette, a petite brunette with a devious grin, who slid off the stool she was sitting on to run up and give Grantaire a huge hug. “I’ve missed you, big brother.”

Though Grantaire hugged her back, he was instantly suspicious. He had only lived with Cosette for a few years before he had illegally enlisted with the army in an attempt to get out of Chicago and never come back, and he hadn’t thought she had really been old enough to develop any kind of attachment to him. “Right back at you, squirt,” he said, in lieu of pointing any of this out, knowing that he was better off saving whatever was going on for when Valjean wasn’t present.

Luckily, he didn’t have to wait too long, since Valjean got a call as soon as they were all in the kitchen and excused himself to take it. “It’s Javert,” Cosette told Grantaire, sounding almost bored.

Grantaire looked surprised. “His former parole officer? What is he doing calling after all these years?”

Cosette winked at him. “Trust me, you don’t even want to know. It’s all  _very_ scandalous.”

“Well, speaking of scandals,” Grantaire said, a little too casually, “what’s going on with you?”

Cosette pretended to examine her nails, but Grantaire could sense a faint blush rising in her cheeks. “Ah, same old, same old, for the most part. Graduated college, working in the city as a social worker, pretty much the usual. But, um, since you’re here…”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at her. “What do you need?” he asked, a little wryly.

“I need your help.”

Grantaire heaved a sigh. “I figured as much.” They both sat at the kitchen table and Grantaire crossed his arms in front of his chest as he waited for her to go on. When she seemed unwilling to do so, he sighed again and leaned forward. “Look, there’s only so much help I can offer when you don’t tell me exactly what you need help with…”

Cosette blushed even more. “It’s my boyfriend,” she mumbled, and Grantaire’s hands automatically clenched into fists.

“I’ll kill him,” he said instantly.

Cosette snorted. “Right. Like Papa hasn’t already threatened that. But he’s not the problem — he’s wonderful, actually, even you would like him—” Grantaire made a disparaging noise which Cosette promptly ignored “—he’s the one in trouble.”

Grantaire’s eyes narrowed. “With whom is he in trouble?”

Looking away, Cosette scratched her neck and muttered, “Um, with the mob.”

“And what do you expect me to do about that?”

Cosette’s eyes met his and she practically growled, “Everything that you can.”

 

_There’s a reason covert operatives keep what they do a secret from their families. Once their families find out, you’ve got problems. Best case, they’re scared. Worst case, they think they can get into trouble and you can get them out of it._

 

Grantaire shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat and scowled. “I forgot how fucking cold it gets in this city,” he groused.

Cosette laughed and looped her arm through his. “Don’t be a baby,” she teased. “It’s above forty degrees, which for this time of year in Chicago is practically tropical.” She glanced down the street and waved at someone walking towards them. “That’s him, that’s Marius.”

Ignoring the way Cosette’s voice turned breathy as she said ‘Marius’, Grantaire squinted down the street at the freckled, lanky man hurrying towards them, a worried look on his face. “Well,” Grantaire said, trying to come up with something suitably brotherly to say beyond reminding Cosette that he had a gun holstered in his suit jacket. “I guess you could do worse.”

Cosette laughed again, but before she could say anything in response, Marius jogged up to meet them. He stuck his hand out for Grantaire to shake, still looking anxious. “Marius Pontmercy,” he said, glancing at Cosette, who smile reassuringly at him. “Cosette says you can help me?”

“That depends,” Grantaire said. “What do you need my help with? Cosette was a little vague on the details.”

Marius glanced nervously up and down the street. “Should we be talking about this here?” he asked anxiously. “I mean, shouldn’t we move this somewhere more private?”

Grantaire smiled and shook his head, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “No, that would be stupid,” he said patiently. “There’s too many people walking around here for anyone to eavesdrop effectively, and besides, we just look like we’re have a friendly little meeting. Skulking in shadows would be much more conspicuous.”

Though Marius didn’t look fully convinced, he nonetheless nodded. “I started off doing some translating work,” he said quietly. “I speak a couple of languages, and a friend of mine said that her dad was looking for some help. And then they asked if I could look after some of their accounts, just simple bookkeeping stuff, which was fine, but then I realized, well—”

“You realized that there were millions of dollars that weren’t quite accounted for, and a bunch of expenditure reports that didn’t make sense?” Grantaire supplied.

Marius looked surprised. “Yeah, how did you know?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Let’s just say I’ve seen it before.” Granted, he had, but at the time he had been looking a foreign government’s shadow accounts. Still, foreign governments, crime bosses, they couldn’t be too different. “So you realized something wasn’t adding up, and let me guess, you took it to whomever was supervising you?”

Nodding, Marius said morosely, “Yeah. And that’s when I was told that if I knew what was good for me, I’d shut up and not say anything, or else they’d come after me and everyone that I care about.” He reached for Cosette’s hand and squeezed it. “And I couldn’t let that happen, of course, but I don’t want to go to jail either, but I don’t know what to do!”

Grantaire held his hands up placatingly. “Ok, deep breath. We’re going to figure this out. What’s the name of the boss you’re working for?”

“Thénardier. He’s got quite the racket going. I can tell you all about it if you want—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Grantaire said smoothly, already sensing that spending much more time with Marius was only going to end in a headache. “I just need to see Thénardier’s books, and then I’ll take care of it.”

Marius looked doubtful, though there was also a hopeful lilt to his voice as he asked, “What are you going to do?”

“I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse,” Grantaire said dryly.

Marius instantly looked impressed. “Seriously? I thought that only happened in the movies.”

Cosette hid a snigger behind her hand and Grantaire clapped Marius on the shoulder before informing him, “That’s because it does. But seriously. I’ll take care of it. I’m just going to need a little help from my friends.”


	2. Chapter 2

_A spy has to have all kinds of combat experience: for me, thirty years of karate, combat experience on five continents, a rating with every weapon that shoots a bullet or holds an edge. But when you’re in the trenches, the best weapon you can use is the person down in the trenches with you. Which means you better pick that person carefully._

 

“I need your help.”

Grantaire figured it was easier to just come out and say it rather than try to hide the request in layers of subterfuge, especially with this group of people, all of whom knew him well enough to probably see through his bullshit anyway. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras exchanged glances, and Grantaire sighed. “You know, the whole telepathic conversation thing is getting a little old, guys.”

Enjolras leaned forward. “Well, then, how’s this for verbal communication: what do you need our help with, and why are you under the impression that we, or at least I, since I suppose I shouldn’t speak for Combeferre and Courfeyrac, would help you with it in the first place?”

Courfeyrac snorted. “Like you wouldn’t leap at a chance to help Grantaire. Didn’t you come back here with the intent to—” Enjolras and Combeferre elbowed him in the ribs from both sides, and Courfeyrac winced loudly. “Right. Sorry.”

Grantaire chose to ignore that. “It’s my sister,” he said, a little grudgingly. “Or, more accurately, I suppose, her boyfriend. He’s in deep doing the books for some local mob boss and wants out, and I promised her I would take care of it. But to do that, I need a team. And you’re the best team that I can think of.”

Combeferre leaned forward as well. “The best team you can think of?” he repeated, a little skeptically. “Or just the only team that’s available to you?”

“Please,” Grantaire snorted, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You flatter me with how important you think my burn notice is. I’ve still got other friends in this town, if I was so inclined to seek them out. More friends, probably, than you, since you don’t often deign to visit some of the places that I’ve frequented.”

Enjolras’s expression didn’t change. “And yet you still haven’t answered my question.”

Grantaire took a deep breath. “Because for once, for perhaps the first time in my life, I’m not doing this because some national intelligence agency sent orders through covert channels. I’m doing this because I think it’s the right thing to do. I’m doing it to watch the little guy beat the bully, just once.”

All three men sat back in their seats, Enjolras looking like he was hiding a smile while Combeferre and Courfeyrac looked thoughtful. “Why doesn’t he just go to the police?” Combeferre asked. “If he’s doing the books, he’s probably got enough details to take the mob boss down all on his own, without our assistance.”

“Because he can’t.” It wasn’t Grantaire who answered, but Courfeyrac, giving Combeferre a look as if this should be obvious. “If he talks, then they know it was him, and there’s little to stop the mob from retaliating against him. Right?”

The last part was directed at Grantaire, who nodded. “Exactly. We need to figure out a way to get this Thénardier to voluntarily back off of Marius, probably by moving their business elsewhere. Which is going to require a solid plan, which, again, is why I need you.”

Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras exchanged glances again, and Combeferre shrugged. “Well. I think I feel comfortable speaking for Courfeyrac when I say that we’re in, but Enjolras will have to speak for himself.”

Enjolras smiled, though it didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I’m in, too.” Grantaire breathed a sigh of relief, but Enjolras wasn’t done. “On one condition, though.”

“Do I even want to know?” Grantaire asked wryly.

Enjolras’s smile widened. “Dinner. My condition is simply that. You and I have the dinner that you promised me earlier.”

Both Combeferre and Courfeyrac hid their laughter as Grantaire took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling as if seeking support from the heavens. “Fine,” he sighed. “If it gets you on board, then let’s go get some dinner.”

 

_The hardest tasks for any spy to deal with always involve the people you care about. Foreign operatives, even your own government are easy enough to compartmentalize, but when it comes to people you care about, there’s always the potential you’ll end up hurting them. Which means in this business, you either try to minimize the people you care about, or else try to minimize anything that may potentially hurt them._

 

Enjolras glanced around the small but well-lit restaurant with an unreadable expression. “Well,” he said, picking up the paper napkin and smoothing it on his lap, “this is nice.”

“Don’t even start with me,” Grantaire said, though there was no bite in his voice. “I know it can’t possibly compare to even the poorest cafés in Paris, but we were limited on our choices since I actually want to get something accomplished today other than just having a meal.”

Enjolras just shook his head. “You used to enjoy spending time with me,” he mused, a little nostalgically. “Think of all the time we spent together in Paris. How many bottles of wine do you think that you went through while there?”

Grantaire smiled. “I think you’d be better off measuring in barrels.” Enjolras laughed appreciatively and Grantaire cleared his throat, eager to get back on subject. “So I was thinking that with this whole Marius thing, I could use you as tactical support. It’s one of the things you’re best at, anyway.”

Shrugging, Enjolras took a sip of water before saying casually, “Sure, it’ll be just like the old days. That sounds like fun.”

Grantaire chose to ignore the first part of that statement. “If that’s how you want to define fun. This is just reminding me of my time in Uzbekistan.” He raised an eyebrow at Enjolras. “But at least when I was in Uzbekistan, Valjean wasn’t calling me thirteen times in one day. I forgot to thank you for giving him my number.”

“You’re welcome,” Enjolras said innocently, though he couldn’t help but grin. “Dare I ask how the investigation into your burn notice is going?”

“It’s not as if I’ve had much time to look into it,” Grantaire groused. “I’ve been a little busy trying to deal with my family and their crises.”

Enjolras shrugged again. “Personally, I think it will be good for you to stay in one place for awhile. It might give you a chance to resolve some issues.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I traveled halfway around the world to get away from those issues.”

Enjolras’s eyes met his. “My point exactly. Maybe it’s time you stop running and face things head on.”

Though Grantaire’s first instinct was to try to laugh it off, he instead took a deep breath and looked down at the table, taking a moment to gather his thoughts before saying quietly, “Listen, Enjolras, there’s a few things that I’m good at. Tactical analysis, strategic planning, hand-to-hand combat, and I’m a decent sommelier. But relationships? They’re just not my thing, and they never were. Not in this line of work.” Enjolras was silent, his expression carefully blank, and Grantaire’s voice softened as he added, “If it makes you feel any better, you were the closest I ever got.”

“It wasn’t close enough,” Enjolras said in a low voice. “Do you not realize how much what we had meant to me? You  _know_  me, you know that I’ve never been one to pursue anything like that, but then you happened, and—” He cut himself off, taking a deep breath before saying with a forced calm, “Things could have worked out for us.”

“How?” Grantaire challenged. “I was taking down a terrorist cell in Paris while you were smuggling guns for a militarized branch of the  _Groupes d’Action Révolutionnaire Internationalistes_!”

Enjolras just shook his head, something sad and a little defeated in his voice as he said, “And a spy is just a criminal with a government paycheck.” He stabbed his salad with a bit more force than necessary, and waved his fork to indicate the bar. “Besides, you’re the one with two FBI agents watching him eat, not me.”  

“Three.” Enjolras cocked his head, and Grantaire elaborated, “One—”, nodding in the direction of the bar, “two—”, nodding towards a booth to their left, “—and one behind me at the tall table.”

Enjolras looked vaguely impressed. “Bravo,” he said, drawing the word out, a smirk stealing across his face. “Shall we shoot them?”

Grantaire just laughed and shook his head. “I think I’ve got enough problems.” His smile faded. “Are we done talking about our past now? Or do you have more that you want to say?”

Now Enjolras arched an eyebrow at him. “I always have more that I want to say,” he said coolly. “But for the moment, I think we’ve both said what we need to say. Besides, you know me. I’m not going to let this go until I get my way.”

“Is that what you came here for?” Grantaire asked. “To get your way?”

Enjolras just shook his head. “I came here because you needed me,” he said simply. “Though part of me — and I won’t say how big — was hoping that what the hotel maid said was correct, and that you were going to die from a gunshot wound, just so I never had to spend a spare thought on you again and could concentrate on what matters.”

Grantaire only just managed not to roll his eyes. “Speaking of what matters, how do you intend on helping the Cause if you’re going to be sticking around here awhile? It’s not like you can do a whole lot to help the Resistance from Chicago.”

Shrugging, Enjolras looked away from Grantaire, clearly unwilling to meet his eyes as he said quietly, “I left the organization. We had some ideological differences — namely, their willingness to murder. My goal was always to get the people to rise, not to murder them.”

Against his better judgment, Grantaire looked impressed. “So does that mean you’re going to be sticking around here, then?”

“That depends.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “On what?”

Enjolras smiled, a coy smile, much like the kind that made Grantaire fall for him in the first place (not that it had taken much; all Enjolras had to do was look Grantaire’s way that first night years ago now, and Grantaire was lost, and had never really been found since), and told him, “It depends on whether you stick around as well.”

 

 _Get caught in a few fire fights or be subject to a few flash grenades, and you’ll find that it becomes remarkably easy to sleep anywhere that’s relatively safe. Of course, that doesn’t mean all places are created equal when it comes to sleep_ …

 

Grantaire looked around the room with a bemused expression on his face. “Well, this is nice,” he said, echoing both Enjolras’s words and tone from earlier, and Enjolras snorted.

“I think you mean that this is a trash heap.” He kicked a particularly dilapidated chair with the toe of his shoe. “Courfeyrac, you cannot possibly expect him to stay here.” 

Courfeyrac looked offended. “It’s the best I could do,” he said defensively. “If you thought he was going to be staying in a four-star hotel, I mean, really—”

“It’s fine,” Grantaire assured him, testing the firmness of the stained mattress sitting on top of a wonky-looking metal frame. “I’ve slept in worst places, trust me. This may be a shit hole, but it’s a livable shit hole.” He gestured for everyone to sit. “Where are we at with Thénardier?”

Combeferre cautiously sat down on one of the chairs. “I talked to a friend of mine with the Chicago Police Department. Thénardier’s pretty well-known, but he’s also fairly minor. We’re not talking a hugely well-connected mobster here. A lot of small time cons and swindling. Nothing that’s put him on anyone’s radar to take him down, which means we’re not going to find any help there.”

“And my contacts on the street say that there’s no one else really looking to encroach on his territory, so we can’t really take that route either,” Courfeyrac added, a little gloomily.

They all looked over at Enjolras, to see if he could add any suggestions, but Enjolras just shrugged. “We could always just shoot him,” he suggested.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “And then we’re stuck dealing with a body. No, that’s probably not the best idea.” He glanced around at them. “So that’s it for your suggestions?”

All three shrugged and Grantaire sighed, about to suggest something of his own when they were interrupted by a knock on the door. Grantaire and Enjolras both reached for their guns, and Courfeyrac looked surprised. “No one should know that you’re here,” he told them quietly. “I cleared this through backchannels, and it’s not like there’s a landlord for this kind of a place.”

Cautiously, Grantaire stood, not taking his hand off of his gun, and carefully edged over to the door, opening it a crack. “Hey, man,” a guy on the other side said. “I wanted to introduce myself as someone you should know.”

Grantaire glanced back at Enjolras, who grinned and flicked the safety off of his gun, then rolled his eyes as he turned back to the door to open it a little wider. “Someone that I’m going to want to know, huh?” he asked, sounding unimpressed.

“Yeah. The name’s Montparnasse. And this neighborhood is mine.” The young man, Montparnasse, whose hair was so perfectly coiffed it was almost giving Enjolras a run for his money, crossed his arms in front of his chest. “And I want you to get out of here.”

Courfeyrac let out what sounded suspiciously like a snort, and Montparnasse whipped his head around to glare at him. Grantaire just glanced from Enjolras to Combeferre to Courfeyrac, and as one, all four drew their guns and pointed them at Montparnasse, whose eyes widened. “I think you may want to reconsider that position,” Grantaire said pleasantly.

For a brief moment, it looked as if Montparnasse might back down. Then, of course, he made the mistake that all small-time criminals who’ve gotten a taste of power do: he stuck out his chin like a petulant child, and told them, “I’m going to tell Thénardier about this!” before practically fleeing the premises.

Childish, sure, but effective, threatening to sic a mob boss on someone, but in this case, it may have had the opposite effect, since Grantaire turned to Enjolras to ask, with the air of one whose wheels were beginning to turn in his head, “Wait, did he say Thénardier?”

Enjolras’s smile widened, and both he and Grantaire were out the door chasing him not even a moment later.

 

_When pursuing someone on foot in an unfamiliar area, you’ve got to assume that they’ll try to use the terrain to their advantage. Alleys, rooftops, side streets are all places that you need to be cautious of. Of course, that implies that the subject knows how to escape from being pursued, and isn’t just a kid in way over his head._

 

Chasing Montparnasse down the sidewalk was, quite perversely, the most invigorating thing to happen to Grantaire since he’d been dumped in Chicago. It was just something he was familiar with, used to, even. Sure, he was normally chasing foreign operatives or warlords or terrorists or something like that, rather than young, wannabe mobsters, but still. Legs pumping, breathing heavily as he rounded corners and avoided colliding with civilians while chasing after a guy as concerned with getting away as he was with holding his pants up: that’s what Grantaire was good at.

And Enjolras was right there with him, which also felt strangely familiar, even after all this time, even after all they’d been through. Of course, now was not really the time for Grantaire to be pursuing this line of thought, so he put it to the back of his mind as they caught up with Montparnasse, who had stumbled over a bag of trash and almost fallen.

Grantaire grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and hauled him upright. “There’s no need to run,” he said, keeping up his pleasant tone from earlier. “You’re the one who said that you’re someone we should know, so it seems only fair that we get to know each other.”

Montparnasse’s eyes darted from Grantaire to Enjolras. “Please,” he said, in a small voice, “I don’t want any trouble.”

“And neither do we,” Enjolras said, smiling. “Which is why you’re going to come back with us.” Montparnasse twisted in Grantaire’s grasp, muttering something incoherent on why he couldn’t, and Enjolras cocked his head and pulled his gun out, aiming it levelly at Montparnasse’s head. “I think you misunderstood the part where that wasn’t a suggestion.”

“Enjolras, that’s enough,” Grantaire said quietly, but Montparnasse chose that moment to kick Grantaire in the shin and wrench himself from Grantaire’s grip, stumbling down the sidewalk. Enjolras flipped the safety off on his gun, but Grantaire dove after Montparnasse, grabbing him by the arm and pulling them both to the ground. “You really can make this easier on us both,” Grantaire grunted as he tried to wrestle a flailing Montparnasse into a headlock.

Enjolras rolled his eyes and strode over to them, pausing for a moment before knocking Montparnasse on the side of the head with his gun. Montparnasse instantly stopped moving, and Grantaire sighed. “There was a better way to handle that.”

“You’re welcome for helping you,” Enjolras said instead, offering Grantaire his hand and pulling him to his feet. To Grantaire’s surprise, Enjolras used that moment to wrap an arm around Grantaire’s waist, grinning widely as he told him breathlessly, “Just like old times, wouldn’t you say?”

And then Enjolras kissed Grantaire.

It was a brief kiss, though every lustful fiber in Grantaire’s being longed to turn it into something more. Instead, he pushed Enjolras away, his expression steely. “Violence may be foreplay for you, but it’s not for me.” He looked down at Montparnasse’s prone form. “Now we have to lug him all the way back to the loft.”

He didn’t see the hurt look that flashed across Enjolras’s face, though it was quickly replaced with something far more neutral. “Well, thankfully, you have my help with that as well,” Enjolras said coolly, bending to grab one of Montparnasse’s arms, while Grantaire sighed and bent down to grab the other.

 

_Guns make you stupid. Shooting someone takes away the only thing that most people are good for: the information that’s inside their head. If you decide you want to be a spy so that you can shoot things, choose another career path, because most of your time as a spy is going to be spent trying to get information out of people without ever needing to draw a gun._

 

“For the last time, we don’t want to hurt you,” Grantaire said, as patiently as he could muster after about a half hour of interrogation that thus far had revealed little more than what Montparnasse looked like when he cried and thrashed against the duct tape Grantaire had used to tape him to a chair.

Montparnasse looked wildly around at Enjolras, who was sitting on the bed, cleaning his gun and looking sour. “Tell that the blood on my face!” Montparnasse said, a touch hysterically, and gestured emphatically with his chin in Enjolras’s direction. “Tell that to  _him_!”

Grantaire grabbed his chin to hold him in place. “He didn’t hurt you because he wanted to,” Grantaire told him, hoping the lie wasn’t too apparent in his voice. “He hurt you because he had to. We need to talk with you, and you weren’t being particularly cooperative. But if you cooperate now, we won’t hurt you.”

“And if you don’t cooperate, we’ll leave you alone in a room with him for ten minutes,” Courfeyrac said cheerfully, and when Combeferre and Grantaire gave him a dirty look, he looked offended. “What? We were all thinking it, and the good cop, bad cop routine isn’t going to work on anyone. Let’s expedite this process, and maybe we can actually find something we can use on Thénardier.”

Montparnasse instantly perked up. “Thénardier?” he repeated. “I can tell you anything you want to know about him.”

Courfeyrac looked smug, and Grantaire rolled his eyes before pulling a chair around to sit down across from Montparnasse. “Well, luckily for you, we want to know pretty much everything you can tell us. Who he is, what’s he like, weaknesses — weaknesses would be really helpful, actually.”

Montparnasse licked his lips nervously and glanced around. “Cut my wrists free, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes again but gestured for a knife, figuring that Montparnasse would be an idiot to try anything again, especially with Enjolras still watching him like a hawk. As soon as his wrists were cut free, Montparnasse spilled, telling them all about his history with Thénardier and an organization called Patron-Minette, how Thénardier had given him a few streets of his own in exchange for service, and, perhaps most important of all, how Thénardier was paranoid that any one of Patron-Minette was going to turn on him and start stealing from him or from the organization.

He said it off-handedly, like it hardly mattered, but it was that small tidbit that caused Grantaire to swivel and lock eyes with Courfeyrac, who nodded thoughtfully. “We can use that,” Courfeyrac said quietly. “Paranoia is a powerful motivator.”

“Why not use what’s right in front of us as well?” Enjolras asked, nodding towards Montparnasse. “Set it up so that he looks like he’s stealing, and convince Thénardier to leave like that.”

Courfeyrac looked thoughtful but Grantaire shook his head firmly. “We can’t do that,” he objected. “It’d be putting undue risk on Montparnasse who, questionable deeds aside—” Montparnasse started to look offended, but Enjolras shot him a look and he reconsidered “—is technically innocent in all of this.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and leaned forward, clearly ready to argue, but Combeferre cleared his throat. “We can use him while still protecting him,” he interjected quietly. “We can use our other resources to ensure that Thénardier takes the bait while also ensuring Montparnasse’s safety. Courfeyrac, you used to date that money launderer, right?”

Nodding slowly, Courfeyrac said, “Yeah, Prouvaire. He should still be on good terms with me. You want to use him to launder some money to make it look like Montparnasse is skimming?”

“If you think you can convince him to help. We'll have Marius doctor the books accordingly to make it look like Montparnasse has been taking the money that we'll make it look like ended up in Montparnasse's account. And Grantaire, why don’t you use your FBI tail for something productive? We can make it seems like the FBI is investigating the whole situation. With the FBI involved and the assumption that Montparnasse is already going to be on his way to jail, there’ll be no reason for Thénardier to seek revenge against Montparnasse since it’ll just be easier for him to cut his losses and run before the FBI looks into him.”

Montparnasse looked skeptical. “I don’t know if that’ll work,” he said. “Thénardier’s a lot of things, but he’s not stupid.”

Enjolras stood from the bed in a fluid motion, and Montparnasse blanched. Leaning down so that he was speaking directly into Montparnasse’s ear. “Then I guess we’ll have to make it work, won’t we?” Montparnasse swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and Enjolras turned to smile at Grantaire. “Let’s get to work.”

 

_Spies take Murphy’s Law to heart — whatever can go wrong, will go wrong, and so contingencies have to be made for every possibility. But sometimes, Murphy’s Law applies to itself, which means that every now and then, when you least expect it, and can never plan on it, things go right._

 

Grantaire looked both ways before jogging across the street. He had considered a number of ways to do this and figured, as with most things, a direct approach was the best. He paused for just a moment before knocking on the window of the dark-colored, American made sedan. “Can I have a word?” he asked.

After a moment, the window rolled down, and Grantaire turned to grin disarmingly, only to freeze at the sight of who was inside, wearing almost identical ill-fitting suits and sunglasses. “Fucking shit,” he said, beaming. “What the fuck are you two clowns doing here? Bahorel, I didn’t know you were working with the Bureau again, and Feuilly — damn, it’s just good to see you.”

Both men inside the car grinned back at him, and Bahorel in the driver’s seat stuck his hand out for Grantaire to shake. “Yeah, I’m back with the Bureau,” he said. “And lo and behold, my first assignment is tailing some asshole who got himself landed on a shit load of government watch lists.”

“I mean, I’d apologize, but think of how many worse things you could be doing,” Grantaire said easily, leaning against the car door. “But I have to admit, I didn’t think that the FBI would assign old associates of mine as my tail.”

Feuilly snorted. “What makes you think it was an assignment?” he asked. “Bahorel and I volunteered. We figured it’d be a good way to act as intermediary when necessary. We owe you that much.”

Grantaire blinked, surprised. “But then — why didn’t you guys just tell me it was you? I’ve been looking over my shoulder for the past few days to watch where you guys were and everything.”

Bahorel gave a short, low laugh. “Well…let’s just say we owe Enjolras that much.”

Wincing, Grantaire looked away. “I probably deserve that.” He glanced down the street and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Am I ever going to be forgiven for that?”

“When Enjolras forgives you, we’ll forgive you,” Feuilly said shortly. “But in the meantime, you didn’t just come out here to shoot the shit with us. Clearly you want something. So let me ask — what can the FBI do for you?”

 

_Along with Murphy’s Law and all its contingencies and corollaries, there’s one axiom every spy in the world knows to be too true: all of the planning in the world doesn’t mean anything if you don’t pull it off._

 

Courfeyrac tugged his baseball cap low over his eyes and sat down at the bar next to a man who would otherwise be entirely unassuming were it not for the mask that he wore across his eyes like some kind of cartoonish bandit, while across the bar, Combeferre had settled in next to a hulking man. Both were reported by Montparnasse as being members of Patron-Minette, and after a long moment and several sips of beer, Courfeyrac said casually, “How about those Bears, huh?”

The man next to him — Claquesous, if Montparnasse’s intel was correct — grunted but didn’t respond, and Courfeyrac sighed inwardly and tried a different tack. “Man, I may have had a shitty day, but nothing can beat the day that a friend of mine had. He had a bunch of cops coming in to ask him questions about some gangster or something.”

That seemed to catch Claquesous’s interest, and he took a long pull from his beer before saying in low voice, “Oh?”

“Yeah. Something about someone skimming money off the top or something like that? I don’t remember the exact details, but man, it sounds like things are going to get rough for this guy, Thénardier.”

Claquesous stiffened. “Did you say Thénardier?” he asked.

Courfeyrac hid a triumphant grin. “Yeah, I think that’s what my friend said. Something like that, anyway. Apparently some guy underneath him has been stealing and the cops are investigating it? My friend said that the cops who came to see him were feds. I told him to steer clear of the whole thing, of course, because you don’t want to get caught up in that shit, man, you know, with RICO and all that shit—”

He would have kept going but Claquesous was already ignoring him, digging in his pocket for his cellphone, assumedly to call or text Thénardier, and Courfeyrac allowed himself a brief smile before draining his beer and taking out his own cellphone to text Grantaire two simple words: [ _It’s on._ ]

It took less than a minute for Claquesous to head for the door, gesturing urgently for the man next to Combeferre to join him, and once they were outside, they hailed a cab and headed downtown.

Unbeknownst to either of them, a car pulled out from where it was parked on the street and followed them at a safe distance.

Once downtown, the cab stopped in front of Thénardier’s office, and Claquesous and Gueulemer got out. Down the street, Enjolras parked the car in the first spot he could find before texting Grantaire: [ _They’re at Thénardier's_ ].

Not even ten minutes later, Thénardier burst out of the building, red-faced and shouting at both Claquesous and Gueulemer, and Enjolras texted Grantaire again: [ _He’s on his way_ ].

Grantaire slid his phone into his pocket and looked at Montparnasse. “Thénardier’s on his way,” he told him. “You know what you’re going to do next?”

Montparnasse swallowed hard, looking a little ill. “Yeah, I’m supposed to head back to your place and wait until you get the all-clear.” He glanced around the apartment that had previously been his, which was now trashed and cordoned off with police tape. “Are you sure that Thénardier’s going to buy it? And isn’t going to come looking for me?”

“He’s not going to come looking for you because he’s going to be under the impression that you’ve been arrested, but that means that you have to keep your nose clean and stay on the right side of the law,” Grantaire said sternly. “The moment you make waves in the criminal world again, and Thénardier’s going to know that you never went to jail, and we won’t be there to protect you. Got it?”

Though Montparnasse nodded, he didn’t look convinced, and Grantaire’s tone softened as he clapped Montparnasse on the shoulder and told him, “Everything will be fine. I’ve had some experience in something like this before, and it will all work out. Now go, before Thénardier gets here.”

Montparnasse nodded again and hesitated before blurting, "You could at least let me keep the money!" Grantaire glared at him and Montparnasse wilted. "Fine. Or not," he muttered, and then left, and Grantaire surveyed the room once more before carefully zipping the coveralls he was wearing, emblazoned with the Chicago police department logo and “CRIME SCENE PROTECTION AND PROCESSING” written across the back. He hastily bent and pretended to be busy as a loud knock sounded at the door. “Detective, is that you?” he called innocently.

The door opened to reveal the man that Grantaire assumed was Thénardier, who looked even more unsettled at the sight of Grantaire. “Sorry, I was, ah, looking for a friend of mine. He lives here.”

“Oh, he lives here?” Grantaire asked, straightening. “Well, the only person who was here has been arrested. He’s been taken into custody, and not even by the CPD, but by the FBI. My boss isn’t too happy to have this case taken away from him, I can tell you that much.”

He chuckled appreciatively as if to laugh off the bureaucratic wars that were too high above the pay grade of a lowly crime scene technician, but Thénardier had lost what little color remained in his paunchy face. “The FBI?” he repeated in a voice little more than a wheezing whisper.

Grantaire nodded and jerked his head towards the window. “Yeah, see those guys down in that unmarked car? They’re genuine FBI, went to Quantico and everything.”

Thénardier crossed to the window and glanced down at where Feuilly and Bahorel were sitting outside, ostensibly tailing Grantaire as they had been all week, though of course, Thénardier didn’t know that, and for not the first time Grantaire gave mental thanks for the fact that FBI agents all still dressed like walking stereotypes. “Oh, shit,” Thénardier said under his breath.

“Is there a problem?” Grantaire asked with mock innocence. “Say, if this was a friend of yours, you weren’t involved in whatever got him arrested, were you?”

Those seemed to be the magic words, as Thénardier hastily backed towards the door. “No, no,” he assured Grantaire quickly. “Absolutely not. I just, uh, I’ve never seen real FBI agents before. They look so official. Anyway, I’m gonna go, and if anyone asks, well, you never saw me here, alright?”

Grantaire nodded seriously, and Thénardier left, giving Feuilly and Bahorel a wide berth on the way back to his own car. And then Grantaire sat down on the floor of what was Montparnasse’s apartment and allowed himself a moment of laughter. Then he texted Enjolras to make sure that he was following Thénardier and ensuring that the rest of the plan went smoothly, and when that was done, he stripped out of the coveralls and went about the business of packing all of Montparnasse’s things up.

 

_As a spy, it’s important to remember that the best guns and the most manpower and even just the most strength in the world don’t really matter for anything in your line of work. What matters as a spy and the single most important part of your job is being able to fool people._

 

Grantaire was trying hard not to laugh as he casually eavesdropped on the conversation currently going on in Valjean’s kitchen. “You may call yourself an idler,” Valjean was saying seriously, his hand undoubtedly weighing heavily on a terrified Montparnasse’s shoulder, “but you’re going to need to be prepared to work. It’s much better to be an honest man, and I’m prepared to help you as much as you can, but you really are going to need to work for it, and it’ll be much better for you in the long run if you do.”

Montparnasse darted a glance over to Grantaire as if begging for his help, but at that moment, Enjolras strolled in the front door as if he belonged there, which, given the way Valjean barely looked up at him, seemed to be true. “Can we talk?” Enjolras asked Grantaire lightly.

Though Grantaire stood and followed him outside to Valjean’s front porch, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to be here when you told Marius and Cosette,” Enjolras told him. “Fighting for the little guy — it may not be what you normally do, but you’ve got to admit that you did a good job.”

Grantaire snorted and looked away. “I don’t know if we’d really define Marius as the little guy,” he muttered, though he also blushed at what, from Enjolras, amounted to a pretty high compliment.

Enjolras shrugged but smiled. “Well, in any case, it’s done now. Which leaves me wondering what you’re going to do since it is over.”

Grantaire shrugged as well. “I haven’t found out who burned me. I haven’t gotten my bank accounts unfrozen. I haven’t gotten my job back. So, for the moment, it looks like I’m going to have to stay here.” Enjolras’s expression fell slightly at Grantaire’s obvious lack of enthusiasm, but then Grantaire added, “But then again, maybe I don’t need to work as hard to find out who burned me. After all, they’ll come for me eventually, right? No matter what they want me for, they want me for something.”

Enjolras looked over at him sharply, but before he could say anything, Cosette pulled up in front of the house with Marius, and bounded over to him as soon as she was out of the car, Marius trailing after her looking a bit like a puppy. “Well?” Cosette demanded, giving Grantaire a hug, and, surprisingly, Enjolras a kiss on the cheek. “Do you have any news?”

Enjolras and Grantaire exchanged glances, and then Grantaire smiled at both Cosette and Marius. “It’s taken care of,” he told them. “Marius is going to be safe now. Thénardier’s pulled his operations from the city and moved westward, and it doesn’t seem likely that he’ll be back.”

Marius let out a particularly undignified whoop that startled both Enjolras and Grantaire, and then picked Cosette up and spun her around before setting her down and kissing her deeply. Grantaire made a disparaging noise at the sight of him kissing his sister, but managed to bite his tongue from saying anything.

Besides, it was a damn cute sight.

As they watched Marius and Cosette kissing, Enjolras slowly reached down and took Grantaire’s hand, lacing their fingers together. And for the first time since being sent to Chicago, Grantaire made no move to pull away.

 

_Fighting for the little guy is for suckers. Still, as a spy, it doesn’t matter if you’re helping rebel forces fight off a dictator or saving your sister’s boyfriend from a mob boss: there’s nothing like helping the little guy kick some bully’s ass._

 

There was a football game on the TV, and a Bear’s game to boot, but no one was paying any attention to the game, too busy talking and drinking among themselves as they waited for the turkey to be done.

On the couch, Courfeyrac sat between Marius and Cosette, telling them some of his flashier stories from his time in the service and generally flirting with both of them. Cosette seemed utterly charmed, and Marius seemed torn between fascination and confusion.

In the kitchen, Combeferre was helping Valjean get food ready, and they were deep in discussion on some kind of philosophical religious debate. Grantaire called to them from where he was pouring himself another glass of wine, “Hey, don’t forget to make up two extra plates to take out to Bahorel and Feuilly, since they’re not allowed to join us for dinner.”

Valjean waved him off, and Grantaire shook his head and sighed, taking a large sip of wine. Suddenly, a pair of arms slipped around his waist, and Grantaire turned to face Enjolras, who was grinning at him. “About time you got here,” Grantaire said, leaning in and kissing him.

“Sorry, international criminals sometimes forget which US holidays are when, and I had to get a jump on this shipment of AKs if I didn’t want to lose them.” Grantaire gave him a disapproving look and Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Relax, I’m just moving them to someplace safer. They’re not going to get on the streets.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes and was about to respond when his cellphone rang. Frowning, he handed Enjolras his wine glass to hold and dug it out, eyes narrowing at the unfamiliar number. “Hello?” he said.

“Hi, um, is this Mr. Grantaire? I…I got your phone number from someone who says he knows you, someone who says that you can help me, and I…well, I really need your help.”

“Hey, calm down,” Grantaire said, almost soothingly. “Calm down, and then tell me what’s going on. If I can help you, I promise, I will.”

 

_When you’re burned, you’ve got nothing._

_But sometimes, just sometimes, when you get burned, you end up with everything you ever wanted._


End file.
